I’m one of those freaks who loves winter.
Not sure why.
Got nothing against the other seasons, of course.
They all have their charms, and I’m always glad when they come back to visit.
I remember once, good Lord, can it be more than five decades now, my little self, waking up in the middle of the night to stare out my bedroom window at the snow coming down better than an inch an hour.
There was something magical about it.
I stared on out there for an hour, maybe more, too excited to sleep; how could anyone sleep with the magic going on outside my window, I thought?
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We’ve had just two cold nights so far this year. And they weren’t even that cold.
Maybe it’s just my imagination, my own taste, but the stars never shine brighter to me than they do on a clear-sky winter night with the thermometer slinking on down towards zero Fahrenheit. Bundled up in layers, maybe an open tall boy in one of my coat pockets, maybe draw some of that cold air deep down into the lungs with a good hard pull on a smoke, and then a look up at that night sky, well, nothing quite like it.
At least in my book.
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No snow, no real cold. Lakes we ice-fished off of way back when don’t even freeze over anymore. They don’t flood the town tennis courts to make an ice-skating rink anymore, because it’d never freeze up enough anyway. None of my kids even own a pair of skates. Why would they? No one plays pond hockey around here anymore; there’s no ponds they could skate on even if they wanted to, and it looks like there won’t ever be.
I still get those butterflies in my stomach when I can look out my bedroom window and watch the snow come down, but that doesn’t happen very often anymore. Maybe once a year, maybe twice.
No skating, no Dads driving our cars a half mile out across a frozen lake to a shanty, no boring holes into a foot and a half of ice, hardly a snow day to be seen around here anymore.
Just weeks straight of monochromatic gray skies and occasional drizzle.
I don’t even own a good pair of winter gloves anymore; why bother?
It doesn’t get cold enough where I need them anymore.
Even if it does snow enough to shovel, by the time it ends, it’s warm enough out there for me to do it in a pair of cargo shorts and a heavy, hooded sweatshirt.
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I wonder sometimes if my little five year old self watched that snow in wonder with some premonition that I stood in awe at the end of an era.
Nah, probably not.
Let’s not give my five year old self too much credit.
But I suppose I want to, because it's some way to process what's going on.
And the fact that winter’s gone brings me down, and yes, I know there are bigger problems in the world, and I don’t mean to imply my longing for long-gone winters is the worst longing anyone out there lives through.
I know what winter leaving town means, though, and it means a lot more than my sad.
I know it means we’ve beaten this old world up pretty badly.
Maybe beyond repair.